A Quiet Kind of Panic
by ViiraK
Summary: Moriarty planned to burn Sherlock in another way and John just happened to be the perfect target. Johnlock, multichapter
1. Chapter 1: Inferno

**Hey, this is my second Sherlock story.**

**this story is my version of what should have happened during the Fall and what happens afterwards. It will be a multichapter story and it is Johnlock, so if you don't like it, then don't read it ;-)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock nor do I won the quotation at the beginning.**

**Enjoy**

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><p><em>I take a kind of quite panic to the river<em>

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><p>Sherlock stood facing Moriarty on the rooftop. His face showed nothing expect a calm determination that he was going to win this battle, he was going to be the victor. Moriarty showed the same façade, only, it was mixed with an incurrent of insanity that the goals and the game could change at any moment. They both studied each other.<p>

"It's time to jump Sherlock, I've beaten you. It's over," although Moriarty was smiling as he said this, his voice, betrayed a sense of sadness, that the game was over and he had to go back to dealing with the common drabble of England's streets. Sherlock noticed the change in tone.

"You sound, disappointed Moriarty," Sherlock began as walked in a slow circle around him. "Now why would you be disappointed? Is it because you won? No, that's not it. That would make you happy. Is it because I lost? No, that's not it either. Is it because I haven't jumped yet? Nope, wrong again." Sherlock placed a fake surprised look on his face. "Oh! Maybe it's because I'll be dead soon. You'll be back to being alone and bored. So. Very. Bored."

Sherlock punctuated his last line by getting closer and closer to Moriarty's face. He locked with the mad man and smirked as Moriarty's expression slowly morphed into one of anger, annoyance, and disappointment. Sherlock stepped away from him, his hands clasped behind his back, and hopped onto the ledge of the roof.

"Well," Sherlock peered down to the street below where people were going about their daily lives not aware of the possible suicide that may occur right in front of them. _Look at them so oblivious_. "I guess this is the end. You won. You can go back to being the only genius worth their salt in the world." Sherlock placed one foot over the edge.

"Stop!" Moriarty almost yelled, but it came out as a firm command. Sherlock turned his head around in an overly dramatic fashion and placed his foot solidly back onto the ledge. Moriarty, who had looked panicked, schooled his features into an aloof expression. "We have to wait until your little husband shows up. It's no fun watching you disgrace yourself without him to witness it."

Sherlock's jaw tightened slightly when Moriarty brought up John, but quickly relaxed his features again. He stayed standing on the ledge, keeping up the façade that he was planning on jumping when John showed up. A quiet reigned on top of the roof.

_The quiet before the storm_, Sherlock thought.

He heard the taxi drive around the corner and so did Moriarty. Moriarty began to speak.

"You know, I have thought about how bored I would be without you Sherlock," Sherlock turned around to look at the man who was now moving towards him. "You have been such a fantastic distraction. You have given me such joy..."

He reached out his hand for Sherlock to take. Sherlock hesitated, thousands of thought flying in his brain with every action and every outcome. He placed his hand in Moriarty's and he was escorted off of the ledge. Moriarty didn't let go of his hand once Sherlock stepped down, but pulled him extremely close to himself.

"…so much joy; breaking you." Moriarty leaned in close, whispering directly into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock tensed. "Did you really believe I would make you jump?"

Sherlock jerked back to look at Moriarty's smirking face. "I told you, I told you, Sherlock." Moriarty still grasped Sherlock's hand, barely a foot between the two of them. "I would burn the heart out of you and you just proved to me what that is." He sung the last line.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows trying to see what he gave away. Moriarty chuckled.

"You still don't understand? No, well let me enlighten you," Moriarty released his hand and slithered around Sherlock, now standing behind him. Sherlock stood still, looking straight ahead. "Why would I want to kill you? The only man that could keep me distracted. Killing you would not burn you, but burn those ordinary people who have come to care about you. I'm trying to hurt you."

Moriarty slithered back around to face Sherlock. He placed a hand on Sherlock chest, over the shirt and scarf where his heart was beating underneath. "This is what I'm destroying. And luckily, you've told me how."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I've told you before Moriarty, I don't have a heart. There is nothing for you to burn. You have already destroyed my reputation. That's what matters to me."

Moriarty pushed harder against Sherlock's chest. "Don't lie to me Sherlock, you can't fool me now. You were willing to jump!" Moriarty smiled up at Sherlock. "You were willing to jump which would prove that you're a fake, but you were willing to do it to save your friends." Moriarty began to laugh. "So, I'm not going to make you jump."

Moriarty stepped back from Sherlock and jumped up onto the ledge, a crazed look adorning his face and showing in his movements. He pointed a hand below. Sherlock stayed where he was. "Don't sulk Sherlock, look." Sherlock turned his head slowly to Moriarty and made his way mechanically over to the edge and peered over. His eyes immediately saw John, standing on the opposite sidewalk talking to a random man. He could tell that John didn't want to be talking to this man, but John was too polite to just walk away.

"Oh, look! I was worried he would have already made it into the building, but luckily, that man had stopped him from leaving the street." Moriarty winked at Sherlock and went back to looking down at John. "That's your heart is it. I really don't understand why but then again, I never was a pet person."

Moriarty jumped back off the ledge and stepped back into Sherlock's personal space. He leaned in over Sherlock's left shoulder which forced Sherlock to continue looking over the ledge at John. "Welcome to the end Sherlock. Now, now I have beaten you."

Moriarty raised his right hand.

Sherlock breathed in.

A shot rang out.

John fell.

Red stained the sidewalk and people ran screaming.

Moriarty chuckled as he walked away.

Sherlock breathed out. It shuddered. He slid down to the ground as tears fell freely from his eyes which didn't reflect any type of emotion. The sirens in the background began to echo in his mind along with the words 'John', 'shot', and 'over.'

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><p><strong>Hope you all enjoyed and please review! Tell me what you think<strong>


	2. Chapter 2: Hamlet the Dane

**Hello All! I have updated be proud!**

**This is the next installment in the series it involves the aftermath of my version of what happened during the Fall. It centers around Sherlock and Mycroft with a little Lestrade thrown in on the side.**

**I have no Beta so all the mistakes are my own. I take proud that credit proudly :-)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock nor the quotation in the beginning nor the Blue Collar Comedy tour**

**Enjoy! And please review. If you do I will place a list of names in the beginning author's note in the next chapter with smiley faces next to each one ;-)**

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><p><em>Hamlet asked, "To be or not to be?"<em>

_There's a fucking simple answer, Hamlet._

_Be._

_Be with passion._

_Be._

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><p>Lestrade was having a good morning.<p>

His alarm clock went off on time. He got ready at a leisurely pace. He arrived to work on time. Donovan was already there filling out paperwork that was due the next day. Lestrade had already finished this paperwork. There were no pressing cases on his desk. He had been at work for two hours and there were yet to be any murders in his division. He was happy.

Then lunch time came and his happiness ended.

A young man with brown hair and brown eyes opened the door to Lestrade's office. He stepped hesitantly and closed the door behind him. Lestrade did not recognize this man, but he was in a good mood so he smiled at the boy.

"Detective inspector Lestrade?"

He really liked his title. "Yes?"

The boy snuffled a bit, remembered where he was, and then straightened to his full height. "I was told to tell you that Sherlock has been arrested and is currently being processed and placed in jail."

Lestrade was definition of the word, surprised.

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><p>The police found Sherlock slumped on the ground on the roof of Saint Bart's hospital. They had come after a 911 call stated that a man had been shot and another man had been spotted on the building ledge in shooting range. Sherlock had not struggled when they arrested him.<p>

He vaguely heard the policemen talking to him, but all the noise seemed to be muffled, as if they were speaking underwater. Sherlock had been led down the stairs and outside the building. His eyes locked onto the blood stain on the sidewalk across the street from him. He felt the urge to vomit or yell or react in some way, but numbness had taken over his body. He was placed in the back of a police car and driven away.

He remembered not seeing an ambulance, meaning, his brain slowly put together, that John had already been taken to a hospital nearby. The police car stopped in front of a jail that was about ten minutes away from Saint Bart's. They led him out of the car and into a small, dimly lit and colored building. There were rows of desks which cops sat with outdated computers. He was led, in cuffs, to the largest desk at the end of the room.

He was booked and then they began to ask him questions.

They asked him his full name, his age, ect. He answered them mechanically and if asked later on who asked him the questions, Sherlock wouldn't have a single clue. One question did stick in his mind though. They had asked him if he had any aliases. This triggered a memory regarding a night in which he was forced by John to watch a mundane comedy show. He remembered part of a joke which had to do with aliases and potato salad, but he didn't commit it to memory. What he did commit to memory, though, was John's laughter and obvious amusement at the joke. Sherlock remembered this, because John's laughter had caused Sherlock to crack a smile.

"Sir! Do you have an alias?"

Sherlock shook his head 'no'.

They took his finger prints, led him to an empty cell in the back of the room, unfettered him, and then shoved him into the jail cell and shut the door. Sherlock curled up onto the bed and didn't move from that position. His mind kept vacillating between John, Moriarty, and the sound of a gunshot that was fired close to where Sherlock had been standing. He had never been so wrong in his life, in fact, Sherlock couldn't remember at all, ever, being so far off the mark.

Above all, though he felt guilty. It's a feeling that he trouble identifying at first. He felt like he should have tried harder even though he knew that he actually did his best. It was confusing to him, feeling an emotion that he knows there is no reason to feel, yet, it still consumes.

Along with the guilt was a debilitating emptiness. A sadness that was so overwhelming, it had consumed all other feelings and all that remind was a body and a mind. Sherlock felt like crying or breaking down completely, but he couldn't muster up the energy to do either. So he laid, curled on the bed for a indeterminable amount of time. He would later be told it was only about 30 minutes until a guard came and unlocked his cell.

"Your bail has been posted," the guard, who was a young woman, opened the door and gestured for Sherlock to leave. He got up and made his way down the hallway to the room he first entered through with the rows of desks. He saw his brother, Mycroft, standing in near the desk at the end of the room looking completely out of place with his expensive suit and solid stance.

Mycroft scanned Sherlock for any injuries which was an automatic response after seen his brother running into danger on a regular basis. He came up with no injuries, satisfied; he looked up to meet his brother's gaze and flinched. There was no life in the pale blue, sometimes green, eyes.

"I want to go to the hospital," Sherlock said it in a solid voice with no infliction. He knew that his brother knew what happened on the rooftop and what hospital John had been taken to. Mycroft nodded and led his brother out of the jail and into an unmarked black car.

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><p>The hospital waiting room was a quiet place. There were people there waiting to see loved ones; those that worried. There were other people who were there only to comfort those that were waiting for loved ones; those that supported. There was a woman and her daughter on the far end of the room huddled in sea green chairs, crying; those that lost.<p>

Sherlock sat amongst the crowd of waiting people. His legs were tucked in an impossible angle onto the seat with his head resting against the wall behind him. His eyes were closed and his mind was replaying the rooftop scene over and over again.

Mycroft, after speaking with some doctors, was told John alive and in surgery and they weren't sure how long the surgery would take or even if he would survive. He relayed the information to Sherlock who didn't make any comment, and then he took the seat next to his brother and waited. He watched the other people, their expressions, their reactions, their interactions, they way the comforted one another. Mycroft couldn't help but wonder if there was something wrong with him and Sherlock because he felt no need to wrap his arms around Sherlock and hold him and he was positive Sherlock wouldn't want him to do that anyway.

Mycroft's phone rang three times in the span of ten minutes which was the same minute Mycroft turned off his cell phone and placed it back in his coat pocket. The least he could do for his brother was wait with him; it was the only comfort he could think to give.

It was four hours later when the surgeon finally walked into the room to deliver the news of John's condition. He immediately spotted the two men sitting side by side, one in a black coat and one in an expensive brown suit, amongst the few other families littered about the room.

Mycroft had spotted the doctor as soon as he entered the room. He stood up and walked over to the doctor, knowing, Sherlock was following right behind him. They stood side by side facing the older looking doctor. Mycroft felt as if he should be holding Sherlock's hand or providing some physical comfort if things were to turn sour, but rejected the thought as soon as it entered into his mind.

"Mr. Holmes I presume?" The doctor's voice was deep, level, and kind.

Mycroft looked over to Sherlock who was looking at the doors behind the doctor. He decided to answer for the both of them. "Yes, I'm Mycroft Holmes and this is Sherlock Holmes."

The doctor nodded. "I am Dr. Dayfield. I was not the original doctor who began Mr. Watson's operation, but I was called in an hour into surgery because of the extensive brain damage caused. I am happy to inform you that Mr. Watson is alive." He paused and waited for a reaction.

Mycroft nodded and Sherlock stared straight ahead. The doctor took that as a sign to continue. In the distance an old woman began to weep and beg loudly that her husband wasn't dead.

"The bullet struck the top of Mr. Watson's brain which caused the stop of his skull to facture. This wouldn't have been that large of a problem, bones heal, but the skull fractured enough where some pieces were lodged into actual brain matter. We were able to remove all of the pieces from his brain." He paused again. "The damage to the brain though, is irreparable. The part of the brain that was damaged is usually referred to as Broca's area. It's located on the left side of the brain and had to do with speech. We fear that if he wakes up that he won't be able to speak, he will be able to understand speech, but he won't be able to actually form words and say them."

Mycroft nodded and Sherlock stared straight ahead.

"We would like to see Mr. Watson," Mycroft may have suggested this, but it was a command and Dr. Dayfield recognized it as one. He led them in through the maze of the hospital until he reached a door labeled 350. He then inclined his head and walked away. Mycroft opened the door but did not go in himself. He did know enough about comfort to recognize when someone needed to be alone. He closed the door after Sherlock entered the room and then went to find the chief of the hospital to see if he could bend the visiting hours to Mr. Watson's room.

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><p>Sherlock couldn't concentrate on the doctor when he was speaking. He kept replaying Moriarty's words in his head and he kept seeing John fall to the ground. He only caught a handful of words the doctor said, but it was enough for Sherlock to figure out what John's condition was.<p>

The images and the sounds stopped when Sherlock entered John's room though. The sound of a beeping machine echoed in his mind. The only image he saw now was that of John lying perfectly still on the white hospital bed. He had a bandage wrapped around his forehead; tuffs of his hair were sticking out underneath the other bandage that went over the top of his head.

He felt a wave of emotions crash against him and the emptiness disappeared when he saw John. Seeing him alive brought a sense of over whelming relief to Sherlock that he felt his knees buckle. He felt crawling rage towards Moriarty and what he had reduced John to. He felt utter despair knowing that John's injury was all brought on by Sherlock and his need to play the game. The emotion that prevailed over all of them was a sense of caring. Sherlock cared; he cared so _fucking_ much it hurt.

He staggered over to John's bed, dropped to his knees, and with the little energy he had left, laid his head next to John's hand and cried with all the care in the world.

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><p><strong>Tell me what you think. Good, bad, loved it, hated it, predictions, wants, anything!<strong>


	3. Chapter 3: Silence

__**Hello All! sorry it took so long to update but Fanfiction wouldn't let me log in so it isn't my fault!**

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**Now on with the story!  
><strong>

**Disclaimer: I own nothing...absolutely nothing **

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><p><em>Right to the end, he didn't give me a chance to get a word in edgeways. Which is a pity because at that last moment I'd have liked to tell him what I thought of him. Mind you, since in that last split second we were, to all intents and purposes, one and the same, I rather think he knew anyway<em>

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><p>"What do you mean 'John's been shot?'", Lestrade yelled into his cell phone as he was making his way out of the jail which, apparently, Sherlock had been in a few hours before. "No, I haven't heard about it! When did this happen?" The other officers in the building pretended not to hear Lestrade's extremely loud phone conversation as he hurriedly walked in between desks and towards the front door.<p>

"Is he okay?" Pause. "What do you mean you don't know?" Lestrade threw open the front door of the building wide, causing many pedestrians to leap out of the way to avoid getting hit. "You called me up to inform me about an injured person and you didn't bother to find out what their current condition was?" His voice cracked on the end of the sentence.

Lestrade stopped and took in a deep breath. "I'm sorry; I'm just…worried and stressed. What hospital is he in I'll go check myself. That's probably where Sherlock is anyway."

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><p>The last thing John remembered was an overwhelming pain in his head but that only lasted for a few seconds until darkness took over completely. So when he woke up to a beeping machine and dull ache in his head he had a pretty good idea where he was. He had been injured before and the smell of a hospital is something that he remembered vividly.<p>

John cracked open his eyes and was attacked by white. He quickly shut them again as the photoreceptors in his brain screamed in protest. He took a minute before slowly, this time, opening his eyes. He could now make out the definition of a white wall in front of him, a television at the top left corner, and a door on the left side of the room.

He experimentally began moving the limbs of his body feeling for any other pain besides the one in his head. He came to the conclusion that he was not injured anywhere else, which, in his mind, was a good sign. His next realization was that his throat was dry and he really wanted a glass of water. He turned his head to the left to look for a table and saw instead person.

This particular person was asleep, curled up on a chair that had been moved as close as physics would allow to the bed that John was currently occupying. This person had their head tilted upwards, their legs curled underneath themselves, and their left hand resting on the bed next to John's right. This person happened to be Sherlock Holmes.

John was surprised that Sherlock was actually asleep. It always seemed to him that Sherlock had some sort of super human ability to never eat or sleep and yet have all the energy of a normal human being who ate and slept. John did bounce around the idea in his mind for awhile that Sherlock might be more advanced than the human race and along with his amazing mind he was also able to photosynthesize to create energy. John dismissed that thought after a few days because Sherlock rarely went out during daylight hours.

John was interrupted from his musings by Sherlock waking up.

Sherlock brought his head back to normal level and blinked his eyes several times trying to adjust to the new feeling of being awake versus being asleep. John waited silently hoping he would be able to surprise Sherlock this one time. Sherlock untucked his legs and stretched his body. John likened the movement to a cat. He smiled at that thought; Sherlock caught the slight movement out of the corner of his eye and whipped his head around so fast that John feared he caused himself whiplash.

"John? You're awake," Sherlock's face showed surprise as did his speech. His body was twisted in an odd angle on the chair in order to face John completely. John's smiled widened further because he not only caused Sherlock to be surprised, but also caused him to point out the obvious.

Sherlock, at first, seemed to be having a mental debate with himself. His first reaction to seeing John awake was something in the form of throwing himself onto the bed and hugging his friend, but he dismissed that thought and decided to dwell on that reaction later. The next was a sense of relief that caused him to feel that stupid need again to cry. The last reaction was to smile and that one he couldn't help because he was happy. No, that didn't describe it well enough: he was jovial, excited, over the moon, ecstatic.

All these feelings washed over Sherlock in a matter of seconds and the next thing Sherlock knew, his surprised look was accompanied by a ridiculous smile that, as cliché as it sounded, seemed to light up the room. John couldn't help but smile ridiculously in return.

John nodded and went to say something along the lines of 'no shit', but no sound came out of his mouth. His lips moved, the thought was there in his mind, but there were no words to be heard. He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and tried again. Nothing. Silence.

He looked up at Sherlock as if he had the answers, because Sherlock always had the answers.

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><p>"<em>The bullet damaged the part of your brain having to do with the act of speech…"<em>

There were so many things that John had wanted to say. This was all he could think about as Dr. Dayfield explained to him what he already knew; were all the things he hadn't said aloud and what he would give now to be able to say them. All those times when he held back for some reason or another. Those times when there was so much more to say, but he decided that it could wait.

John risked a quick glance over at Sherlock…there were so many things he wanted to say.

"_Now, as you probably have already noticed, you can still understand speech. The part of the brain, Broca's area, is to do with the act of speaking only not the understanding of language…"_

John knew some of his thoughts were a little over dramatic. He knew that he could write down his thoughts, he could still communicate through other means, but there was something so final about not being able to voice his opinions aloud again. It was difficult to comprehend that he could never yell again. He could never express himself aloud. The only people he would be able to communicate with were the few who knew sign language (that's not including the fact that John had to first learn sign language himself).

He was limited now.

He was handicapped. _Damn it._

"_Now, over time, you may develop the ability to say some words, simple words, because the brain is able to repair some of the damage and other parts of the brain may change in order to make up for the damaged area, but it will never be as it was…"_

John really wished the doctor hadn't used those choice words: 'never be as it was'. That basically summed up all the fears he had. Everything would change and it wouldn't be like it was before. He wouldn't be as useful now. Maybe Sherlock would get bored with him…and John wouldn't blame him if he did.

Sherlock risked a glance at John.

He seemed to be having a mental debate until he reached out and grasped John's right hand…

John squeezed his hand in return.

"_The next step is getting you to communicate again which will involve you learning sign language…"_

Sherlock really wished the doctor would just leave. He started out his speech about how 'lucky' John was and that he was 'lucky' to be alive. Sherlock felt the urge to hit the man because John shouldn't have to be 'lucky', John shouldn't be in this situation at all where he needed to be lucky. It wasn't luck that led John into this situation, it was Sherlock and for that, he will always feel guilty.

John may not have noticed, but Sherlock was watching him and did see him cringe when the doctor uttered the phrase 'never be the same again.' Sherlock had known the power words had over people and the need to carefully pick out what to say and what not to say to invoke certain emotions. So as soon as Dr. Dayfield finished that sentence Sherlock felt the need to immediately take back the words or somehow stop John from ever hearing them. He knew how John would interpret the meaning. Sherlock didn't need to see John's face fall to know the effect that those words had on his friend.

Sherlock couldn't stop John from hearing the words or his train of thought, but he could offer some sort of comfort. Now, Sherlock was unaccustomed to comfort because he never felt the need to ever offer it to another person, but he had watched copious amounts of television and knew the most basic methods were either a hug or holding a hand. Logistically, from Sherlock's position, a hug would be hard to pull off and not very subtle, so that left hand holding.

He didn't anticipate the warm feeling the spread through him when He grasped John's hand nor did he expect John to squeeze his hand back immediately. Sherlock couldn't help but let a small smile touch his lips as Dr. Dayfield's voice morphed into the background and the sensation of holding john's hand became the center of all his attention.

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><p>Moriarty sat lazily in a chair. The chair was a faded green and was placed behind a desk that sat in the center of the room. The desk was a dark wood and was neatly organized, almost to the point of a compulsive disorder. The room was painted in a light brown with book shelves lining the walls and two other less ostentatious chairs were placed in front of the desk in the middle of the room. The ground was wood and in the center was a detailed rug. Moriarty had one leg thrown over the right arm rest of the chair and the other leg was on top on the desk, messing up the neatly stacked piles of paper. He had his left arm resting on the left arm of the chair holding up his head while his right hand held a phone to his ear.<p>

"Yes, I am aware," Moriarty did not sound annoyed, but rather complacent. "No, it was perfect shot. It's exactly what I wanted to happen."

Moriarty sluggishly raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Yes we are going to continue with the plan…start two days from now," He paused, "with the woman and then the kid."

Moriarty clicked the phone shut.

"People require so much direction. It's like dealing with children," he dramatically sighed as if all the weight of the world was on his shoulders. He spoke to a man in the room that was currently lying tied up on the ground bleeding from a gunshot wound in his stomach. "You should be thanking me, after about," Moriarty checked his watch, "another three hours you won't have to deal with ordinary, tedious people."

He chuckled and walked out of the room with a hand in his pocket, whistling.

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><p><strong>Some ending notes:<strong>

**Obviously, damaging Broca's area would have more affects on a person than just speech lost, but it is Fanfiction so I stretched the workings of the brain a bit; don't hold it against me please**

**Review!**


	4. Chapter 4: Some Survive

**Hola All! I'm back with another chapter. Sorry it took so long I had midterms and papers to write, but I'm free now so the next chapter should come up faster than this one did.**

**The talking might be a bit confusing, because all John's dialogue is done in his head. It will stay like this for a while until he learns sign language.**

**The plot will be picking up in the next chapter. Unfortunately, I have to set up everything that happened after the Fall, before I can move forward in my own plot, but not worry, next chapter there will be plot.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything, if I did, the Sherlock show would have more than 3 episodes :-)**

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><p><em>Almost a pulse if we could speed it up: the repeated seeking of out several senses towards each other, fibers trying to reach across the gap as fast as possible, following a blast.<em>

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><p>"So…" Lestrade had absolutely no idea what to say. He had never been, in his forty odd sum of life, in a more uncomfortable situation then the one he is in now. Every time he thought of something to say, he thought of a reason not to and quickly shut his mouth again. He felt pressure to speak because of the three people in the room who were currently staring at him: Mycroft, Sherlock, and John. "Um…the nurse told me I could come right in to see…uh, to see how Wats-John was doing." He smiled awkwardly at the end.<p>

John, feeling the awkwardness in the room, looked up a Lestrade who was still standing by the door, and smiled back at him and then nodded his head to convey that he was fine just to save the man from speaking again.

"He's fine," apparently John didn't need to nod, because Sherlock filled in his sentence for him. Lestrade shifted his gaze to Sherlock was sitting in the chair closest to John's bed. He looked a little worse for wear, his hair was wilder than normal and his clothes looked as if the hadn't been changed out of for a few days. He wasn't quite sure who he should address; he was asking John the questions but Sherlock was answering. Lestrade really wanted to just leave the room and send John a nice 'Get Well Soon' card later.

"That's, uh, good." Lestrade was pretty sure his brain had shut off or at least left him as soon as he stepped into the hospital room. His gaze then traveled to the only other person in the room, Mycroft, who stood facing the window at the other end of the room.

"Will he be released soon?" Good, that was decent question. Lestrade wanted to congratulate himself.

Sherlock locked his eyes onto Lestrade. "Why don't you ask him yourself, he is right here?" It was more of a command than a question and Lestrade heard it and immediately regretted what he said. John, who blushed slightly at the protectiveness Sherlock displayed, hit his arm. _Be nice, he's trying his best_.

Sherlock sighed and turned his attention to John. "I know," he turned to Lestrade. "Sorry."

Lestrade thought that maybe Sherlock really could read minds because he was positive that John had told Sherlock something, without actually speaking aloud. He looked between the two as they had their silent conversation.

John: _That wasn't a real apology_.

Sherlock: "He understood what I meant perfectly."

John: _You're impossible_.

Sherlock: "Good deduction John."

Mycroft turned away from the window. "Can please stop talking aloud Sherlock, the doctors are going to think you've gone mad if you keep having conversations which seem to be with yourself." He smirked at the two. "Though it is quite touching the way you know each other so well." All three people in the room picked up on the sarcasm.

John, who was still quite a bit angry at Mycroft for selling out his brother's entire life story to Moriarty which in turn caused John to lose his voice, did not find any humor in what Mycroft said. He was, however, surprised that Mycroft was doing an extremely human thing, by staying with John and making jokes because he felt guilty. John took some comfort in the fact that Mycroft did accept his responsibility, and felt at least a little bad about it.

Sherlock was still too pissed at his brother in general to pay any attention to his emotions and so, for once, he missed a detail that John had easily picked up on.

"Why are you even here Mycroft?" John looked over at Sherlock and was surprised to see that Sherlock really wanted to know why Mycroft was there. _He doesn't know what his brother did, what his brother said to Moriarty._ John felt the situation in the room was trending on very thin ice; he feared Sherlock's reaction when he found out about his brother's betrayal. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother's question and then looked at John asking him why he hadn't told Sherlock anything yet. John gave him a look that said 'why do you think I haven't told him. I can't speak idiot.' Mycroft had enough shame to look abashed and then shifted his attention back to Sherlock.

"No reason, dear brother." He cleared his throat and started to walk over to the door where Lestrade stood. "Since I am so unwanted, I shall take my leave. Wouldn't want to intrude." John and Sherlock both thought, _lair_. Mycroft nodded his head towards Lestrade as a goodbye and left the room. John and Lestrade watched him leave, Sherlock did not.

Sherlock turned his attention to Lestrade. "What brought you here Lestrade?" John wondered the same thing. "I know you don't feel compelled to see John, you could have just sent a card on behalf of Scotland Yard. So there must be another reason." Sherlock smirked slightly. "Is there a case? Lost without me?"

Lestrade now looked really uncomfortable. "Uh, how long have you…um, been here Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know how long has John been in the hospital?"

John brought up two fingers. Sherlock nodded. "Two weeks, then."

"You haven't seen the news or the papers then," Lestrade stated it as a fact, Sherlock started to look bored. "You've been labeled as a fraud Sherlock. People, Scotland Yard in particular, believe that you set up those cases; they think you're just a good con artist." Lestrade paused. "There is no case. There will never be another case…" He sounded sad about this.

Sherlock looked shocked at Lestrade. Then the past caught up with him. Moriarty destroying his character, implanting falsehoods in people's minds, the article that was posted by Kitty, just because John survived doesn't mean that Sherlock's reputation did.

John looked from Lestrade to Sherlock. He saw the veiled fear on Sherlock's face which was covered by anger. He knew Sherlock was afraid of what his life would be. Sherlock felt he was noting without his work and now that there was none, what would happen to him. He felt he was nothing without the use of his brain. Sherlock was a consulting detective, the only one, and that's what made him who he was.

John opened his mouth to try and comfort Sherlock, and then realized that he couldn't. His jaw clenched in anger and for a moment he was drowning in self pity. He saw the look of fear on Sherlock's face and John forgot about his own pity and everything became about Sherlock. He placed a hand on Sherlock shoulder and squeezed. Sherlock slowly brought his bright eyes to John's.

_Then it makes them stupid and wrong. _John thought at Sherlock.

Sherlock's lip twitched into a smile. "Using my own words against me? Well, at least you have learned something from me John."

They were together in this. In, essence, they had both lost their voice; John literally and Sherlock figuratively. No matter how impressive Sherlock was, no one would ever listen to his deductions again and think them to be true. Sherlock had lost his voice as well.

Lestrade felt out of place and felt like he missed something important again. He realized that the two men had completely forgotten about him being in the room. His help wasn't needed anymore, as long as those two were together, they would be fine. Lestrade smiled and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

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><p>"You have helped me." Moriarty, as Richard Brook, whispered into Kitty's ear. He brought his hand up to pushed he hair back he behind her ear as he smiled at her. "You are an amazing person." Kitty smiled brightly back at him and wrapped her arms around his torso. He leaned in and kissed her, she kissed back.<p>

He leaned back. "You have done more than you know."

"I couldn't let someone like Sherlock use you like that. You're too good a person to do that," Kitty said as she leaned in and kissed him again. She brought he hand up and ran her hand through his hair. He caught the hand and brought it in between the both of them. He looked down at their adjoined hands and smirked. He looked back u at Kitty, and his face had changed.

He brought his free hand up to Kitty's left check. "But, sadly, you have served your purpose." He gave her a fake frown of comical disappointment. Kitty noticed the change from a sane man to a cruel man and she leaned backwards but her hand was still held being held by Moriarty.

He patted her cheek, let go of her hand, and stepped backwards. "Thanks." Moriarty smiled. Kitty felt a shiver go down her spin and began to fear began alone with this man.

"What are tal—"

A gun shot rang in the air and Kitty dropped to the ground, a bullet in her head. Moriarty looked disgustingly down at her. He whipped a piece of brain off the front of his shirt, he realized his was still dressed in the clothes of Richard Brook, and frowned. His phone rang.

"Yes, you can display the body now," He stepped over Kitty and made his way out of the house. "Make it good. I want to surprise the public." He smirked as he stepped out onto the sidewalk, mingling with common people who were going about their day.

"I'm changing the game."

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><p>Lestrade found Kitty Riley in her own home…<p>

…her body was found in pieces, one part for every room.

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><p><strong>Woot! You finished the chapter.<strong>

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	5. Chapter 5: Chess Pieces

**Yay! Another chapter finished and it's a bit longer than normal.**

**Be prepared for some surprises in this chapter which involves an introduction of a character I have yet to mention :-)**

**Oh, and I have no Beta so all the grammar and spelling mistakes are my own**

**Another note all those people who hae reviewed...**

**You guys are amazing and I love your comments, they make me happy. I can't wait to hear your thoughts on this chapter**

**Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing...sad times**

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><p><em>Heaven's door is narrow and only allows one hero at a time,<em>

_But those going to hell always travel in pairs,_

_Hand in hand_

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><p>John was happy to be home. He had spent the last two and half weeks in a room with white walls, white sheets, and white floors. If Sherlock hadn't been there he might have thought he had been locked away in an insane asylum. He began, by the end of the second week, to plan ways of escaping that involved a really long rope or being able to run really fast. Thankfully Sherlock had annoyed enough of the doctors that they had wanted John out of the hospital just as much as John wanted to leave. So when he reentered the flat he paused to enjoy the familiar then proceeded to collapse into his favorite chair.<p>

Sherlock made his way into the kitchen. "If you couldn't tell I'm making tea and yes, I know you want some. "John nodded his head even though he knew Sherlock couldn't see and picked on the closest newspaper to him. It was the same paper he read before him and Sherlock were arrested and all hell broke lose. It was from when he had his voice. He quickly put the paper back down just as Sherlock walked into the room with tea, handed John a cup, and then sat down across from him.

Silence invaded the room.

"I'm glad that—" Sherlock began then stopped himself. "That you're, you know, alive and well." He cleared his throat and clearly had no idea how to convey his feelings and that just made the silence that pervaded after the declaration even more awkward.

John smiled weirdly, almost forced at Sherlock.

Silence again.

John sipped his tea and found the first good thing about not having a voice, not having to worry about breaking awkward silences. All the pressure now rested on Sherlock, who as everyone knew, wasn't the best at avoiding awkward situations, most of the time, he created them.

John did feel sympathy for the man who was now intently studying the floor underneath his feet. So John decided to help him out. He motioned towards his laptop that sat on the cluttered table behind Sherlock's chair. Sherlock, understanding the intent, leapt up from him chair, grabbed the laptop, and practically flung it at John. John barely caught the enthusiastically thrown laptop in time, but thankfully, his reflects were still sharp and it didn't end up rearranging his nose.

"I guessing you're going to check your blog. Yes, of course why else would you be looking at your laptop with such a despondent look on your face; you wouldn't dread reading anything else expect that having to do with me—you—us," Sherlock rambled as he tucked his legs underneath him on his chair. He tapped his fingers on the arm rest and never kept his head still. He picked up his tea cup and took a long sip.

John was listening to Sherlock with amusement, which was quickly taken over by dread as his laptop turned on and he logged into his blog. The hit counter still stayed at 1894, but the amount of emails sent were over a thousand. John shrunk into his chair and slowly brought the courser over to the 'email' button and clicked.

Email 1: _I can't believe you conned us out of our money like that. You appeared to be such a nice—_

Email 2: _You mother—_

Email 3: _Ha! I knew I should have never believed that someone could figure out who stole my car in 30 seconds without being in on the scheme in the first place—_

The rest of the emails read about the same way and John, who skimmed through about fifty of them, stopped and closed the laptop and then placed it on the ground. He looked up to see Sherlock staring at him from the chair opposite him.

"Public outrage?" Sherlock meant it as more a statement than anything.

John nodded and wondered what could possibly come next.

Then Sherlock's phone rang.

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><p>"Have you swept the entire house?" Lestrade asked in a voice that was laced with frustration and tiredness. He brought his hand over his eyes hoping that energy would come to him if he gave his sense of sight a rest…it didn't work. The man he was talking to, Anderson shook his head and looked disappointed.<p>

"No, we haven't found anything. No finger prints, no blood that isn't the victims, and no hair. It's completely clean," His voice raised an octave at the last word as he threw his hands into the air. He'd been at the crime scene longer than Lestrade, and he'd been working and getting nowhere which made the work and the exhausting all the more annoying. He felt like punching a wall. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I…I think that we might need—Holmes." God, if he had to admit to needing Sher-Holmes' help, he was at least not going to use his first name; seemed more formal that way.

Lestrade nodded. "Yes, but now, if I called Sherlock I would be breaking the law thanks to the mishap that happened when we went to arrest Sherlock…"

Donovan walked into the room and at the mention of Sherlock, her face hardened. "You aren't seriously thinking about calling that psychopath?" Anderson, who hated Holmes with a passion, was surprised by how much his hatred was overruled by the hatred that Donovan felt towards the man. Lestrade just wanted to go home. He has spent all day at a crime scene he didn't fell like arguing with Donovan right now.

"We are stuck on the case and I would rather catch a murderer then sulk around here just because—"

Donovan cut off Lestrade in an angry tone. "Are you all blind! This woman was Kitty Riley, the one who posted the article about Sherlock being a fraud. You haven't considered that maybe Sherlock had something to do with this?" She stepped closer to the two men. "I mean, we had the mad man in cuffs, but his brother posted his bail and then two weeks later she shows up dead."

"Donovan!" The other policemen at the crime scene looked over as Lestrade yelled. He waved an apologetic hand and lowered his voice. "Not again with this crap. Sherlock is not a murderer; just stop and do your job. Do something productive." Lestrade ordered and then began to walk away from an irate woman and a surprised man. His thoughts were focused on how to get Sherlock to see the case without the other higher ups knowing about it in Scotland Yard.

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><p>"Hello sexy," the voice was calm and playful on the other end of the line.<p>

Sherlock tensed and John caught the movement. He motioned with his hands, trying to tell Sherlock to put the cell phone on speaker. Sherlock hesitated when the irrational thought of protecting John from listening to this mad man crossed his mind. He threw out the thought and put the phone on speaker, holding out in between himself and John, in his left hand.

Sherlock said nothing.

"Oh, don't be like that," Both men could hear the smirk through the phone. "I did leave your pet alive, though I did break him a bit." He laughed.

John pursed his lips and Sherlock's hand that was holding the phone twitched.

"Well, since you're not being any fun then I guess I'll just get to the point," Moriarty paused. "I have enjoyed playing these games with you Sherlock, really I did, but now playtime is over." His voice was no longer playful but dark. "I'm going to upgrade the game. It is no longer going to involve just the two of us."

Sherlock had his eyebrows furrowed which John recognized as a look Sherlock got when he was concentrating very hard, most likely on the exact words Moriarty was using. John wished at the moment to be able to hear what Sherlock was able to hear. It didn't stop John from trying to really listen though.

"I'm branching out as some would say," He chuckled. "I have no idea why I haven't thought of this earlier." He paused again. "Are you waiting on baited breath? Well, I'm not going to give you details at this point, you will figure it out soon enough and the worst part is…there will be nothing you can do to stop it. I don't know if you've heard, but people don't quite believe in your amazing abilities Sherlock."

Sherlock still remained silent hoping that if he gave Moriarty the time to talk that he would reveal more than he normally would or want to. John was wondering why Moriarty sounded so excited and why Sherlock wasn't saying anything.

"I can tell you this," Moriarty paused for the need of dramatics. "The game will involve worlds, worlds Sherlock, worlds. Tata."

The line went dead.

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><p>"So what do you think I should do?" Donovan asked, which was a rarity for her, as she relaxed on a love seat couch in her living room. She was in a pair of gray sweat pants and an old, paint stained tank top. One of her arms where thrown over her eyes and her other lay dangling off the edge of the couch. The person she was asking was currently in the kitchen, making food, but could see Donovan from where they stood. This person was a man, her boyfriend to be exact.<p>

The man whipped off his hands on a towel and stepped into where the living room began. He was a tall man, kinda slim with some muscle. His hair was cut short; falling to his ears, and was of a dirty blonde color. His eyes were a dull blue and right now, they reflected concentration. He crossed his arms across his chest which covered up the abstract design on his t shirt.

"Well, you believe that he could seriously be a suspect in the murder," He stated still standing in the same position. "I think you should tell whoever you have to of your suspensions." Donovan removed the arm over her eyes and looked at him. He smiled. "If this man is a suspect then he shouldn't receive special privileges, if you have to, go over your boss's head to the superintendent."

He walked over to Donovan, leaned over her with and arm by her head and one on the back of the couch, and looked at her directly in the eyes. "You're a good person, and a good cop, Sally. The right thing to do is to bring a possible murderer to justice." He leaned down a kissed her.

Donovan smiled faintly back at him as he made his way back into the kitchen, thinking back to when they first met. It had only been a few weeks since she ran into, literally, on her way back home. He had helped her pick herself back off the ground and offered, as an apology, to buy her coffee. She accepted and then they got to talking. This was the point that Sally Donovan turned into a giggling school girl with her first crush. He had reduced her to a puddle of warm feelings that Donovan wasn't use to at all.

Now these warm feelings had turned even warmer. This caused a change from meeting up for dinner to staying over the night which turned into staying over in the morning and making breakfast. And now whenever Donovan looked at him she got a ridiculous smile on her face and everything felt like it would be okay.

He could feel her staring at him as he walked back to the kitchen. He considered that display he just put on very well played. He smirked thinking how proud his employer would be of him if he could have seen the way he acted so well. The plan was going off without a hitch just as his employer predicted.

He picked up the pan and began making bacon.

Sally watched him make breakfast and all the while thought about how lucky she was. She, the hard and cold unlovable woman had a found the perfect man. Her name was Sally Donovan and she was in love with Sebastian Moran.

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><p>The little girl was ten years old and was more wealthy than most of the population could reach in a lifetime. She didn't know this fact though, she didn't know about the troubles of the world or the evils of the world. She was content with playing in the garden behind her home. She liked looking and smelling the beautiful flowers and once in awhile finding an animal hidden among them.<p>

That's where she could found now. She was sitting near a little pond that sat in the middle of the garden. She was leaning over, watching the fish swim around in the pond and was amazed by how fluidly they moved. It was magic to her since she was only just learning how to swim. A long curl of brown hair occasionally blocked her view of the colorful fish and she kept having to push it back behind her ear. Usually she had a clip to hold it in place, but her favorite clip went missing about a week ago and she hadn't found another that was as pretty.

She was enraptured by the fish and knew nothing of the world that went on around her.

That's why she never heard the footsteps creeping up on her nor did see the knife as is cut in the air towards her back.

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><p>It had been hours since Moriarty had called.<p>

John, who had moved to the couch about an hour ago, now was sound asleep on said couch. His right arm was tucked under his head acting as a pillow while his other was thrown across his stomach. He slept silently, like he always had and no nightmares plagued him.

Sherlock watched John from his crouched position on the chair. He had been ignoring John for hours just pouring over the words that Moriarty spoke, looking for any clues but came up with nothing. So he was quite surprised to find that it was no night time and that John had moved from his chair to the couch, when he finally came out of his mind palace. And now, Sherlock watched him sleep.

Sherlock could not describe the feelings going through him when he realized that John would be alive and with him for an indefinite amount of time. He felt like jumping or doing some sort of celebration that involved physical movement. This was dampened slightly by the fact that John would never be able to talk again. It wasn't because John was technically crippled, no, Sherlock was devastated that he would never be able to hear John voice again. As soon as Sherlock met him, he memorized the sound of his voice, but no recreation of his mind could ever replace John's actually voice.

Sherlock didn't really know how to react to these feelings. They were all so strong in him, but they were also contradictory. He felt like crying and smiling at the same time while being weighed down with guilt. He was confused, though he would never admit it at loud, ever.

He did feel that his brother knew or at least suspected Sherlock's confusion, but he would be damned if he ever went to his brother for advice or help in any form. So Sherlock did the only thing he knew how to do.

He observed.

Which is why if anyone asked him why he was sitting on a chair at two in the morning watching John he would say his was gathering information in order to solve a problem. Of course this problem centered on the one thing that could never be solved: the nature of human emotions. Sherlock was never one to give up so easily though. He would watch John the rest of his life is he had to, if it only meant that maybe he would understand why he felt the way he did.

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><p><strong>Ah! Bet you didn't expect Moran to be in the story. He'll play an important role later on along with an OC...<strong>

**And that's all I'm going to say for now. Tata**

**Don't forget to review!**


	6. Chapter 6:Deconstruct

__**Sorry it took so long to update, it's been a very busy week.**

**Hopefully this chapter makes up for the time it took for me to write it. I have introduced some OCs of mine and they will play an important role later on so don't dismiss them. The relationship between Sherlock and John is slow developing, sorry about that, but Sherlock is a little emotionally challenged so it can't be instant.**

**And for all those that have reviewed...**

**BRAVO! I love you all!**

**Disclaimer: I sadly own nothing expect this laptop which is slowly dying :-(**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><em>In the history of language<em>

_The first obscenity was silence_

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><p>It had been two months now since John had come home from the hospital. It had been a long two months for both John and Sherlock, but for completely different reasons. John had been, for the past two months, trying to learn sign language. He was getting nowhere fast. He had the basics down by now and he could form sentences, but he could speak at anything higher than eight grade level and it was driving him mad. He was a doctor, he went to med school for God sake, and he couldn't even speak at a high school level. He felt like an idiot and to everyone else, he sounded like one too. What made it worse though was Sherlock. John knew that Sherlock wasn't doing it on purpose, but it annoyed John to no end anyways. Sherlock felt that he needed to learn sign language in order to help John, because the best way to learn a new language is to have somebody speak it so Sherlock felt it was his duty to learn it and always use it when communicating to John. The thing was that Sherlock learned the language in about a week…and John didn't. So John would get pissed off because Sherlock, unless the circumstances where direr, would only speak to John using sign language. John felt like punching the man.<p>

This annoyance at Sherlock was coupled by the frustration that John felt. An unending frustration at himself and his handicap. John wanted to speak up to say something. He relied on his voice. In the army, he was commanding and even though he was shorter than most of the men, his voice was strong which gave him a height that he didn't actually have. Now, his voice was silenced.

In many ways, Sherlock was helping John with this frustration. Sherlock, besides the annoying sign language, treated John exactly the same way as before. John did find Sherlock watching him more and touching him more, not drastic things, just a hand on a shoulder or a pat on the arm, but there were touches. John wasn't sure why Sherlock was doing these things, but besides the watching and the touching, Sherlock was exactly the same. He still bothered John all day, especially now he had no job, he still didn't talk for days on end afterwards, and he still insulted John. It's just that all these insults were delivered in sign language which made them all the worse to John.

So John decided, about a week ago, to enact his own revenge on Sherlock for all the insults he had endured in silence. Whenever Sherlock would speak to him in sign language John would ignore him completely until Sherlock would finally speak to him using his voice. John knew it was childish but it didn't stop him.

"John!"

Ah, it only took six minutes this time for Sherlock to break the silence. John turned his head slowly to look at Sherlock who was standing to right. He tilted his head in order to ask, _yes, what do you want?_

"I'm bored," if it was anyone else, John would of thought that they were pouting, but it was Sherlock and labeling him as pouting just seemed wrong. John thought about his answer, and then tried to sing it back to Sherlock. He was mildly successful.

"_Why don't you get a job then?" _John paused and then added on at the last second. "_We need the money, surprisingly sitting in a flat doesn't bring in a lot of money." _

Sherlock felt the sudden urge to smile; he had missed John's sarcasm. He was thoroughly confused though on why he was so happy about it. He stored the emotional reaction with the others to analyze at another time. His amusement was soon replaced by annoyance.

"A job?" Sherlock looked at John with surprise, confusion, and annoyance all wrapped up in a quirk of an eyebrow. "A job that involves doing mundane, repetitive tasks that don't involve any type of higher thought process and isn't challenging at all. That kind of job?"

"_I heard that the Chinese restaurant near us was hiring," _John was now trying to hide his amusement at Sherlock's expressions from the man which John should have realized that this was an impossible task after living with the man for over a year.

Sherlock made a noise in the back of throat that gave the impression of being highly offended. "You would have me debase myself to that of the common working middle class and work with people who don't possess a higher education than that of a high school, maybe even middle school, level?"

"_Yes." _

Sherlock spent the rest of the day ignoring John and John spent the rest of the day in peace from sign language insults.

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><p>"Ah, Donovan, come in," the chief superintendent Matthews said to the woman who stood in the doorway. He waved his hand in a 'come in' motion as Donovan closed the door and sat down in one of the chairs that were placed in front of the desk.<p>

Donovan had taken hours to get ready that morning before she found her way to Matthews' office. She had gone through three different outfits, five different hair styles, and eight different pairs of shoes. She settled with a grey pant suit with black heels and she wore her hair down after fighting with it for an hour. Sebastian had told her she looked great and Donovan had beamed at him as she left an hour later than she had intended. The good feeling she had from Sebastian quickly evaporated as she reached Matthews' office. It was now filled with anxiety as she sat down in the world's most uncomfortable chair, staring at Matthews.

"What has you visiting me today?" He sounded nice enough, but Donovan knew how terrible his temper could be. She would have to play this well.

"It's about the murder of Kitty Riley, sir," Donovan paused gathering her thoughts and forcing herself not to stutter. "I know that it has been placed in the cold files, but I have a suspect that I would like to bring in."

Matthews leaned forward, placing his large elbows on his desk. "You have a lead for the case? That's good news but why are you telling me. It's yours and Lestrade's case. Why aren't you telling Lestrade?"

Donovan feared this part. "Lestrade had a…uh, personal connection to the suspect and I don't believe he will agree with me on this, but I have a strong feeling and proof that it could be this person…sir." She was wringing her hands at this point and was forcing herself to look at Matthews in the eye.

Matthews leaned back in chair and sighed. "Who is the person you want to question?"

"Sherlock Holmes sir," There, it was over, she had said it. She couldn't help by feel that she was now traveling down a road that couldn't exit from.

He raised an eyebrow and his jaw set tighter. "The man we arrested a few months ago and then was bailed out. You now think he was involved in this murder? Why?"

She was asked for facts, she could do that. "He was the last person seen with the woman which was the night before her murder. She was the one who wrote the article that labeled him a fraud. So he has a very strong reason to murder the woman."

Matthews breathed in deep. "Lestrade refused to bring this man in for questioning?" Donovan nodded. "You have permission to bring this Sherlock Holmes in for questioning." He paused and Donovan thought it was a dismissal so she stood up, but only walked two steps until Matthews spoke again. "And I want you to tell Lestrade that I would like to speak with him later today."

Donovan was facing away from Matthews, but if he could see her face he would see a reflection of fear, acceptance, and deep sadness. Donovan nodded slowly and then made her way out of the office.

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><p>Sherlock still had no work to do. John, after Sherlock had started to experiment with cooking which involved fire, decided to leave the flat before it caught on fire. As soon as John left, though, Sherlock stopped cooking and collapsed onto the couch. He sat hunched over his head in his hands and breathed in deep.<p>

He had never thought that it would have been this difficult.

He had no work. There were no cases and it wasn't the boredom that was killing him but something else. His mind had nothing to focus on so it had latched onto to feelings, feelings that Sherlock had always dismissed and never gave any thought to. He now only had these feelings.

The main feeling was uselessness. He felt like there was no need to be, to just be anymore. He was defined by his work, Sherlock was nothing without the work and no there was no work so there was no Sherlock. He had no other talents, he had his mind and that was it. John, without knowing it, really increased this feeling earlier today when he brought up the idea of a job. Sherlock had no skills, no training in normal jobs. Sure, he had a degree, but he had no work experience and he really wasn't sure how to act around other people. He was an expert in details, not people.

The secondary feeling was one that he couldn't place a name to but it always came about when John was mentioned. It came about when John's name came up, or when John's face came to mind, or Sherlock saw something that reminded him of John, or when he spoke to John, or when he saw John. It was frustrating. Sherlock had no idea what it was about John, but his mind became completely blank when the other man was in the room. He could describe it as happiness but the word seemed too weak, too general. It was feeling that was caused only by John.

Sherlock ran his hand through his hair and tried to distant himself of the feelings that were coursing through him. He picked up the remote and angrily turned on the television, hoping that maybe crappy shows would distract him enough to forget about how boring his life had become.

The TV began to display the afternoon news.

"Yesterday the daughter of George Finn, a member of the President's cabinet in America, was found dead in their summer home in France. Her body was in the large backyard garden. There have been no reports yet of if it was murder or accident." The woman reporter on the screen stated from her position in front of the large French, summer home.

Sherlock toned out the woman's voice and sprawled himself out across the couch.

"Bored."

There was a knock that came from the front door down stairs.

"Sherlock," it was a female voice one that Sherlock recognized which caused him to roll his eyes. "It's Donovan... if you don't open the door we will be forced to break it down."

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><p>John sat down on an empty bench in the park which was a few minutes walk from the flat. It was nice outside, hardly any wind, and the sun was high in the sky. The trees in the park stood tall and full with bright green leaves. There were a couple other people walking around the park, some were jogging, and one kid was skating through the park. All in all, in was peaceful. John enjoyed it immensely.<p>

It were quite moments like this were John could trick himself into thinking that he hadn't lost his voice; that he just choose not to speak. He was getting used to sign language and expressing himself in others ways, but it was frustrating because he could remember. He could remember what it was like with a voice and he missed it, often.

He closed his eyes and relaxed onto the bench. His phone rang. He reached into his pocket looked at the screen and saw that it was his sister. _Oh shit_, was the thought that filtered through his head. He hadn't talked to Harry since before he was shot. He had completely forgotten about her, he was too busy trying to make sure that Sherlock didn't do anything drastic with his boredom.

He mentally prepared himself for the call, slide the phone open, and held it to his ear. He went to say 'hello'.

"John?" His sister screeched on the other end of the phone. "Have you been ignoring me you bastard! I get a call that you've been hospitalized and then I get no word after that if you're alive or not!"

John was still trying to say 'hello'.

"Do you have any idea of how worried I've been? Oh, so you're not going to say anything…are you listening to me?" She continued to yell at John.

John couldn't say 'hello'. He felt like screaming and crying at the same time. Realizing that he couldn't scream he threw the phone across the across the park. It hit the ground, and shattered in the distant. John sat breathing hard on the bench, his eyes welling up.

He closed his eyes, trying to stop from crying and pushed the emotions down, deep inside of him. When he opened his eyes he was the soldier John again. He stood up stiffly, turned, and made his way back to the flat where Sherlock was, hopefully, he would distract John from himself.

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><p>"You are sure it was—murder," George Finn's voice broke on the last word as he saw his daughter's bright smile in his head. He sat slumped on a comfy chair in his summer home. The room was painted in deep reds and light browns with a couch, another chair like the one he sat in, and a coffee table in the center. It was one of the smaller living rooms.<p>

There were two other men in the room with him. One of the men sat on the couch across from Finn, he had his hands folded in his lap and sat forward. He was young, handsome with light brown hair and bright green eyes. He seemed genuinely upset on behalf of the once father. He had only been promoted to detective only a month before and was still getting used to death, especially that of a child. His name was Jacob Ferux. The second man was standing near the entrance of the room. He was an older man with black, peppered hair, and hard dark blue eyes. He seemed to harden by years of seeing murder, but there was wish that he would still feel as much as his young partner did.

"Yes," the older detective, David Mersult, answered with a gruff voice. "She was injected with a deadly bacteria that worked very quickly to stop her heart."

Jacob Ferux saw the look on Finn's face and felt like he needed to add something. "It would have acted so fast, she wouldn't have felt any pain."

Finn smiled faintly at Jacob and then turned to Mersult. "Do you have any idea of who could have done this?"

"We have not found any finger prints or DNA," He paused and Finn nodded. "We are going to need list of all people who were at this house or had access to this house in the past week."

"Anything that will help," Finn conceded sounding years older than his thirty five years.

The two detectives then took their leave. Jacob closed the wooden door silently behind them, leaving the father to grieve in peace. "That bacteria is extremely rare, finding who have access to it will be a short list." Jacob stated in French as they exited the house.

"It's strange," Mersult began. "Because it wasn't for money, nothing was stolen and the girl wasn't taken for ransom, she was killed. It was attack against her or more likely, her father, but why if not for cash?"

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><p><strong>So the plot thickens...<strong>

**Hope you enjoyed and please review! **


	7. Chapter 7:Dancing With Myself

**Welcome to another chapter in the ever going story!**

**Thank you guys so much for the reviews for the last chapter! They helped me to write this one faster!**

**I hope you enjoy the chapter and John's first of many realizations :-)**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock then it would be airing on an unrated channel...if you understand my meaning ;-)**

**Enjoy lovies!**

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><p><em>There is no orchestra, no audience; it is an empty theater in the middle of the night and all the clocks in the world are ticking. And not for this last time, I don't mind, or even ask if it is madness: I see your face, I see you, you; I see you in every seat.<em>

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><p>The room was small and not one Sherlock had seen before. It was all gray; gray table, gray chair, gray walls, and a gray floor. He sat in the chair, which was metal, and was facing the window in which he could see himself, but not the people who stood behind it. He had his hands folded on the table in front of him and on his face showed absolute boredom but he inside, his mind was working. He was going through all the possibilities, in which there were seven, of why he would be taken to Scotland Yard and questioned. His thought were interrupted by Donovan opening the one door in the room and walking over to the table, there wasn't a second chair so she stood across from Sherlock. She carried a file with her which she placed loudly on the middle of the table.<p>

"Do you know why you are here?" Donovan asked, his voice slightly annoyed, but the rest was cold and distant. Sherlock knew he was being interrogated for real and was interested in what Donovan would do to try to get him to talk. Sherlock, wanting to play as well, decided to annoy Donovan as much as possible to throw her off her game.

He shrugged his shoulders and looked around the room in a flippant manner. Donovan's jaw twitched. She opened her mouth to speak, decided against it, and just slid the folder across the table and towards Sherlock. He looked down at the folder with an unreadable expression on his face, already knowing, vaguely, what was inside of it. He reached out one hand flipped the top of the folder open and what he encountered were several pictures of various parts of a woman's body. He flipped the next page and saw the name: Kitty Riley.

"Ah, you are accusing me of murder once again Sergeant Donovan, how dull," Sherlock sighed and closed the folder looking at Donovan in the eye. "Can't you come up with something more original? We have been through this before."

Donovan raised an accusatory eyebrow. "How did you know I was calling you a murderer?"

Sherlock gave a look that said, 'really?' "You bring me in handcuffs to an interrogation room and give me a folder of the woman who called me a fraud who was murdered. It's that difficult of a deduction to make so don't pretend that I'm the common rabble you question who can fall into the little word traps you set up. It won't work."

Donovan placed her hands flat on the table and leaned forward. "I would take this a bit more seriously if I were you. You have no alibi for that night and you have plenty of reason to kill her and if this goes to court the jury won't exactly be on your side."

Sherlock leaned forward as well. "Wrong. Now can you tell me where Lestrade is because I'm getting really tired of being convicted of every crime that comes through these doors?"

"You're not going anywhere Holmes and this is no longer Lestrade's case," Donovan regretted saying those words as soon as they came out of her mouth.

Sherlock smirked. "Oh, I see. So you went over Lestrade's head to get me in here. Now this is interesting. Is your reputation relying on this case since your leading it? What did you have to say to convince the chief to get me in here?" Sherlock stood up and waked around the table and then leaned in to Donovan's side as her face harden. "Did you sell the point of 'doing the right thing'? Did you say that Lestrade's judgment was clouded by his friendship with me? Did you sell out Lestrade; get him suspended or did you even go so far as to get him fired?"

Donovan was holding her emotions back, her eyes began to water but no tears had fallen. Her lip was quivering in what could have been anger or sadness. Sherlock straighten his back and smirked. He made his way towards the door but just as he was about to open it he turned back to Donovan.

"Oh, and if you had actually used your brain and done some research then you would realize that I have a perfectly good alibi. I was in the hospital with John the entire time several people can attest to that. Good day Sergeant Donovan."

Sherlock let the door slam shut on his way out. Donovan stayed leaning on the table for a few minutes until she gathered herself enough to leave the room. She didn't notice that Kitty Riley's folder was no longer sitting on the other side of the metal table.

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><p>"Lestrade, good to see you," the chief superintendent said to the peppered Lestrade as he made his way from the door to one of the empty chairs in front of Matthews' desk. "Come in."<p>

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Donovan said you wanted to see me sir?" His voice was slightly shaky, he recognized the look Donovan gave him when she told him that Matthews' had asked for him. He feared the worst possible outcome.

"Yes, I did over a very important matter," Matthews' stood up at he said this, walked over to the door and locked it after making sure no one was listening outside. Lestrade looked confused along with being nervous. Matthews' sat back down, opened the top draw of his desk with a key, and pulled out folder with the words classified stamped on the front in black. "A matter of extreme importance has been brought to my attention."

Lestrade, knowing now that he wasn't about to get canned, loosened up a bit and leaned forward in his chair. It had been a few years since he had been able to work on a classified case. "What case sir?"

Matthews' flipped through the folder, but all Lestrade could see were a few photos and a lot of writing. "A case that will require all of your attention and your attention alone." Lestrade was really interested now.

"You probably haven't heard because it wasn't deemed as important enough story to go on the British evening news, but both American and French stations did. Carly Finn, the daughter of George Finn, was murdered a week ago in France. George Finn was part of the American President's cabinet and now has the best police available in France working on solving what has been confirmed as murder."

"You are wondering why we are involved in this. Well, she was murder using a substance, a bacterium which I can't remember the name of right now, but it is only available to purchase for a very limited number of people; a limited number of people that the French police have traced back to members of the British secret service having. They don't know which, it is above their clearance, but they do know that they are British and they work for a high level of our government."

Matthews' leaned forward. "If this is the work of a sector of the British government and that it was planned it could severe the ties we have with America."

Lestrade was trying to take in the information that was being thrown his way. "What would you have me do then?"

Matthews' leaned back in his chair and smiled. "Well the first step is firing you."

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><p>John went home to find an empty flat. John had really hoped Sherlock would be home; he wanted comfort because he hurt, he hurt a lot. He quickly reminded himself that he was a grown man, a grown military man and that he didn't need to be comforted. He wasn't physically handi-damaged he just couldn't speak. In the scheme of what could have happened to him, this was one of the least severe. That's what John kept reminding himself of, that he was lucky and that's what the doctor and the nurses and the other people he knew said to him. He was lucky. John felt like he was the unluckiest person in the world at the moment and he didn't care how many people told him that he shouldn't even be alive. He wanted to be able to speak and if one more person told him how lucky he was he would tell them to go fuck themselves…and then he would apologize and walk away.<p>

He went over to the fridge and opened it. He saw the beer bottles, went to grab one, thought of his sister, and promptly shut the door. He then made his way over to the couch in the living room and sat down in the middle of it and just stared. He wasn't tall enough to see himself in the mirror from the sitting position, so he stared at the empty fireplace, in the empty.

He had never felt more alone and there were no noises he could make to break the empty silence that pervaded the room. There was too much space and John wasn't enough to fill it. He wasn't sure why he felt this way, he had spent a lot of his life in empty flats and yet, in this moment, the empty flat seemed obscene. John then realized why.

Sherlock wasn't there. Not once in the entire time John had lived in the flat 221b had he been in the flat by himself. He was always accompanied by a manic man. A man who John could see clearly now, sitting on his chair in a position that shouldn't be achievable by a grown man, a man who bounded around the apartment making as much noise as a herd of elephants, and a man who talked out so much that John always had a constant narrative to listen to. Sherlock was always there and if he wasn't there physically, he would soon text. He wouldn't text to tell John where he was no, he would text John to complain or to tell him about a new crime; most of the time it was to complain though. And so John had never been left alone in the flat because Sherlock, whether intended or not, had never left John by himself.

Sherlock had become part of John's world so much that John felt alone in a flat without his roommate present as thousands of people were just outside his door. Sherlock had always been there. He wasn't one for comfort or emotions of any kind, but he had given John something, without even trying, that no one had ever accomplished; he gave him companionship.

John couldn't help a smile reach his lips as he sat in the empty flat.

He wasn't alone and he would never be alone because he had Sherlock…

_And god damnit, Sherlock has me too whether he likes it or not!_

John laughed aloud and the flat didn't seem as empty as it did a few minutes ago.

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><p>"No that's exactly what needed to happen," Moriarty smirked into the phone as he browsed a book store. "It's all going to plan you played your part well." He picked up a self motivational book and began flipping through the pages. A lady gave him a glare as he continued to talk on his phone. He placed the book back on the shelf.<p>

"Do not worry you will get your reward," He made his way to the magazine section. "But you have to wait until the game plays out. It's only beginning. Have patience, enjoy it."

Moriarty scrunched up his face at the person on the other line and the Vogue magazine. "Don't grunt it is unbecoming. Oh, I'm getting another call." He switched over to the other caller as he picked up Spin magazine looking at the band on the front cover.

"Seb!" Moriarty wondered who Panic at the Disco was and why the band was dressed in strange 1920s outfits. "I hope you're calling with good news." He flipped to the article. "Oh excellent, so she's at home right now?" He put the magazine back down and walked over towards the Starbucks built into the store.

"So you will be heading over there to comfort her?" He reached the counter. The barista was young, blonde, and happy.

"Hello sir! What would you like today we have fresh baked muffins?" Her ponytail waved behind her head as she spoke.

Moriarty lowered the phone to his chest. "A white mocha, hot, with whip." He placed a ten dollar bill on the counter. "Keep the change." He walked over to wait for his drink as he brought the phone up to his ear.

"Yes get her to talk and make sure to keep her interested in the case, especially his involvement in it," Moriarty paused as he went up to collect his drink. He made his way out of the store. "Keep her curious, Seb."

David Mersult and Jacob Ferux sat at a metal table in an empty conference room in the police department building. Both men were wearing the same terrible look on their drawn, unshaven, faces. There were multiple papers and files in between the two men; it was not organized in any coherent manner. Jacob ran his hands through his hair in frustration, messing up the unbrushed hair even more, and groaned.

"I don't understand why?" He explained bringing his head down to meet the table in a dull thud. He brought up his head and slammed his hands the table causing several papers to float of the table onto the floor. "Why would they take the case away from us? We've been up for three days straight to figure it out and then we get close and they give it to the damn Americans! Why?"

Mersult, who was just as pissed, nodded along to his partner. "I was surprised we were even allowed to work on it in the first place. It did concern the President's cabinet." He was much calmer, he had been at his job for years and he had become used to the way governments interacted with each other, stupidly.

Jacob was having none of it. "We had list! A list of the people which could have included a person involved significantly in murder, if not the murderer himself!"

Mersult smiled sadly at his partner and stood up. He gathered his coat which rested on the back of his chair and walked over to Jacob. He placed a strong hand on his shoulder.

"There will be other cases, this one wasn't ours to solve," He squeezed his shoulder and left the room. The door shut behind him and Jacob relaxed into the chair letting his limbs hang loosely around him. He looked at the papers of the little girl littered over the table.

"I will get my hands on that list."

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><p><strong>Hoped you like it! I slowly bringing everything together. The next chapter will finally bring Sherlock into the deduction races!<strong>

**Review!**


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